I was told to not countthe bald eagles this year.Not the ones in Squamishor the ones on the north tipof Mayne Islandoverlooking Active Pass.

I was told that this yearI was to stay away from numbersaltogether.That if I countedI’d come close to coming upwith a finite number.And that doing sowould cause problems, like don’t EVER discern the9 millionth name of God or time—all time—will expire.They were nebulous, indefinableproblemsthat would nevertheless have direconsequencesfor my relationship with the baldeaglesfor all time to come.

I doubted the wisdom.I felt no rational pullto heed this mildly annoying constraint.Because in the pastthe count was part of what broughtmeinto the eagles’ domain of peace and strength and integrity and authority granted in fairnessand ecological balance.

And I felt no compulsionto change what had always beenthe tradition of autumn communingthat always centred and groundedmeas the arctic outflow windsflew down the Squamish river valleyto rip the last leaves off the treesin Brackendalewhile we all stood on the dykeamongst the few with clipboardsand the proper training that allows them to not double ormiscount.

But as I made my plansto head up Howe Sound to the count,followed by a weekend trip overto the islandso I could stand on the port deckof the ferryremaining stilllooking keenlyat the bald eagleson the south side of Active Passas they peered back at…not reallyme,but the accumulation of eventsin their immense field of vision…but, see, as I made these plans,there emerged a definite sense offorebodingand imminent loss of something intangiblebut oh so valuable.

So the foreboding caused me to acquirefaith,a perverse kind of fear-based faith,a faith that bounded my plans, but still didn’t over-rulethem.Because I went to Brackendaleand stood on the dykeand felt the powerthat the weighty numbers of eaglesemanatedand I actively tried to not count.I even stood far far away from the folks with the clipboards lest they taint my effort.

But when the wind blew right, I’d still sometimes heara clipboard person explaining the mechanicsof the count to a child.And when I tried to block out theirsounds I’d look back into the leaflesstrees in the river to re-focus on the perchedbirds.And I swear to you now that every time I heard clipboardboy speak a number I saw one eagle vanish fromthe corner of my eye, inciting in me a minor paniceach time until I found that only closingmy eyes seemed to stop their disappearances.

So when I left and sailed throughActive Pass I reveled in the absence of clipboards.

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